The Undying Night: Sommerstone Chronicles, #2

By JD Goff

The Undying Night 

BOOK 2 OF THE SOMMERSTONE CHRONICLES​
(FORMERLY "A SEASONS OF STORMS")

​

When Elise learns that the boy she was to marry and his entire village have been taken by the Beckoning, she sets out to find the mysterious Sumisarians and learn the secret of the runes.

 

But the Order are not what she expects, and she soon finds herself plunged into a world of deception, duplicity, and intrigue at the heart of which is secret that has been hidden for centuries. A secret people will kill to protect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JD Goff
• Release date: Jul 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985548464

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by J.D. Goff

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by J.D. Goff

Illustrations by J.D. Goff

First edition 2021

THE UNDYING NIGHT

BOOK TWO: THE SOMMERSTONE CHRONICLES

JD Goff

image-placeholder

TOK PUBLISHING

In memory of Courtney Lynn Beaudette

Always missed. Never forgotten.

CONTENTS

Map of Arahaeth

1.Summoned

2.The Prince

3.Soulbond

4.Reckoning

5.The Burden of Choice

6.The Weight of Conscience

7.The Road to Tome

8.The Way of the Tair

9.Taking the Oath

10.Elise

11.The Girl That Was

12.Uncertain Paths

13.Homecoming

14.Legends and Myth

15.Fears in the Night

16.The Peril of Shadows

17.Answers Without Questions

18.The Wisdom of Stones

19.The Pillars of Heaven

20.The Coming of Malasephus

21.The Price of Knowledge

22.The Paradox of Wisdom

23.Sowing Seeds

24.Revelations

25.To Gaze Upon a God

26.Echos of the Elan

27.Songs of the Elan

28.The Council of Onus

29.The Great Library of Tome

30.Doubts

31.Answers

32.The Beckoning Within

33.The Impossible Man

34.The Beggar's Coin

35.Dreams of Beckoning

36.Whispers in the Dark

37.The Fool and the Madman

38.The Fall of Tome

39.Sul Feral

40.A Game of Masks and Daggers

41.The Curse of the Faellen

Appendix 1

Appendix 2

Appendix 4

Appendix 3

The Undying Night is the official 2nd volume in the Sommerstone Chronicles. There is an unofficial version titled, A Season of Storms, which was released shortly after The Rune that Binds came out.

It was written after the murder of a family member, and my heart was not in it, but I felt obligated to produce something. It’s not very good, and I made little to no effort to promote it. It was withdrawn from publication and replaced with this version. At its core, The Undying Night is the same story, and many of the events are the same, but it is better written.

There are significant changes to the characters, what happens to whom, and some additional scenes, but the plot remains essentially the same. When writing the Rune that Binds, I wrote of death, the murder of loved ones, and the trauma it inflicted in Sep’s life. After living through that trauma, it was hard to come back to the story, but now is the time.

I want to thank everyone who has been supportive and loyal and apologize to those I may have let down. I hope you find The Undying Night a worthy successor to The Rune that Binds.

JD Goff—December 2021

Then will I put forth my hand and pluck the sun from the heavens, and cast my cloak over the moon, and with my breath will I snuff out the stars, and darkness shall fill the land. The prison of Noss shall be broke asunder, its foundations rent, and I will walk the land withersoever I will, and my people will know me. And then will mine enemies forswear their enmity, for I shall slay them, and raise their flesh anew, servants to me forevermore.

The Prayer of Malasephus

image-placeholder

Chapter 1

image-placeholder

Summoned

Corsin followed the guards, uncomfortably aware that they were armed, and he was not. It was customary, and he had not bothered to hide a weapon on his person. That would be suicide. A person of his low station did not enter the palace without the intense scrutiny of the guards, which included a thorough examination of his naked self. This indignity was bypassed for those of higher station, of course, or the palace staff, all of whom had been thoroughly vetted. Corsin was neither, and so he endured the intimate touch of strangers on his naked skin as they examined everything he’d worn with even more scrutiny. Finally, he’d been allowed to dress and was now being escorted to whomever had summoned him. He was not under arrest. They took you through different passages than the ones he now walked, though the inspection of the body was every bit as undignified. A fact he knew from personal experience.

Few things in Jarick were illegal, provided a man had sufficient coin, or the right friends, or both. Unfortunately, Corsin had neither the coin nor friends he’d needed when he’d first been invited to the palace. And his guards had not been as well-mannered. The corridors had been narrow spaces whose walls were coated with grime, and the dark smears of old blood. Sputtering torches had filled the air with more smoke than light.

His crime had been of sufficiently minor offense to keep him off either the gallows or the chopping block. Those who lost their head were obviously denied the ability to come back as one of the feral, those most favored by Malasephus. It meant your body was to be burned, the ashes scattered, so the Beckoning could not revivify your flesh. To be hanged meant you might, at least, be given the gift of immortality as one of the mindless nohetka. He supposed it was enough for some. He was facing several years in the dungeons of Jarick when he found himself suddenly in possession of a wealthy and influential, and anonymous friend.

Whoever they were, they had both the influence and money to free him. Over the last two years, he’d received jobs from his anonymous benefactor. It was the price of his freedom, and he understood these jobs would be done gratis, and with as much discretion as possible. If not, he’d find himself a guest of Jarick’s least hospitable accommodations once more.

The conditions of his freedom chafed, but he did not complain. What he lost in revenue for those jobs was more than made up for by the contacts he made performing them. His status had been elevated, and the seedier elements upon which he normally preyed changed to a higher class of citizen. The risks were greater, but just as in the game of Masks and Daggers, so were the rewards. His new contacts hadn’t made him rich, but he was no longer poor. He lived a comfortable life. And there was one unintended benefit. He had not been in Jarick when Fruur attacked. It was uncertain whether he would have died, but the odds weren’t in his favor.

Corsin often plied his trade at night, and it was likely he would have been in his bed the morning of the attack. The damage had been bad where he’d lived. Nothing was left but ruin and the stench of the dead, many of whom were still buried under the rubble. Had he been in Jarick, he might be one of those odorous corpses. Returning only a week after the attack, Corsin was stunned by the devastation. In its long history, Jarick had never fallen to a foe. The damage wrought by Fruur was unnerving proof that there were powers in the world against which the fabled walls of Jarick could not stand. People still glanced nervously at the sky, shops were closed and entire sections of the city were locked down. A curfew was in place, and the once prevalent faellen were almost completely absent from the streets. They had retreated to their underground warrens, where Fruur could not as easily reach them.

Now he passed through well-lit corridors. They were unadorned, but the stone was smooth and well cut, and of the highest quality marble. Veins of gold gleamed in the lamplight, punctuating the smooth stone with dazzling brilliance. It spoke of the wealth of Jarick that the gold was not harvested, but left in the marble. Less prestigious buildings, for all their splendor, did not have this precious stonework. It was reserved only for the palace and the temples of Malasephus. Under ordinary circumstances, Corsin might be tempted to pick at the thin strands if he’d been alone, and in any other place than the palace. But the gold in the walls was as safe as if it were in a sealed vault. Not even the most desperate thief dared to pry the gold from the walls of the palace or the temples. To steal from the Prince was one of the few crimes that no amount of status or wealth would forgive. To steal from the Prince was to steal from Malasephus, and that was a death sentence without hope of even coming back as one of the nohetka.

In any other palace, this corridor would be on display in the main halls, but their way was lit with plain lamps of tin and brass, and there were no tapestries on the walls. The alcoves and concavities were filled only with shadows and the echo of their footsteps.

This was a servant’s passage. The place where the men and women who swept and cleaned, cooked and washed, made their way through the vast citadel that was the Prince’s palace. But there were no servants to be seen. He was being escorted through halls and chambers that had been cleared of eyes so that his visit would be unknown. Was he finally going to meet his benefactor, he wondered? It seemed likely. Until now, all his communications had been through intermediaries.

He didn’t know, but Corsin thought that Fruur’s attack had prompted this summons. Until now, his employer had always been discreet. They’d never met, and he’d never been able to discover their identity. This meant they were highly placed or extremely careful, likely both. His suspicions came from the kinds of things he was asked to do. And the people he was hired to kill. Corsin was many things, but what he was best known for was his skill as an assassin. He didn’t limit himself to that trade, for while it paid well, it was not a job that was always in demand, and it was riskier than stealing or working as an enforcer. Both those professions were more in demand and needed the same skills that were useful to an assassin. He was also occasionally hired to spy on people or gather information.

Corsin might be good at delivering a beating, or even killing a man, but what he was really paid for was his discretion, whether it was to steal an object or a life. And that required a finesse and skill in gathering information about a target without the target knowing. And, of course, executing the task with no one finding out who had ordered it. Men who were good at taking lives were, by necessity, good at blending in, lurking in shadows, and gathering information. The Principality had spies who could do that kind of work, of course, but spies reported to superiors who kept records. There was always work that needed to be brokered in secret and done in shadow. Such work kept Corsin busy, and helped him make the right friends and enough coin that he seldom needed to worry about the legality of his trade.

Truth be told, he preferred the less lethal lines of work. Assassination was one of the many things that, for the right amount of coin, the guard could be persuaded to ignore, but it depended on the target, of course. And Corsin had eliminated some men and women so highly placed that he doubted any amount of coin or influence would save him. It was why he believed his employer was a high-ranking official or dignitary, and an ambitious one at that. Whoever it was had money and powerful enemies, though fewer of both, thanks to Corsin.

It wasn’t that Corsin had an aversion to killing, and he was always careful, but sometimes that was not enough. Bribing a guard to ignore a murder was expensive. And he was certain that if he were ever caught, his employer would not save him a second time. To do so would be to link himself to Corsin’s crimes.

So, when the opportunity came to spend his time learning about the Eastlands and the Prince’s origins, he took it. It was a pleasant reprieve, and the coin was good, which never hurt. He wondered, and not for the first time, who his employer was, and why they were interested in the Prince’s time with the Sumisarians. Everyone knew that the Prince had grown up in the Eastlands, protected by deserts, mountains, and rivers. They enjoyed an isolation that afforded them their independence from Malasephus. That and the fact that the Eastlands, or as the people in Jarick called them, the Wilderlands, bordered upon Ymbren Geard, the home of the Last Elan. The only being left in Arahaeth capable of defying the fallen Virtue.

He tried to keep track of the turns and twists as they walked, in case he had to make his way out again. They took numerous turns and back passages, cutting through empty rooms, up and down flights of stairs, and passed through two cellars until he wasn’t sure if they were still in the palace, or in some outbuilding within the palace grounds. Finally, they arrived at a small but ornate wooden door, which the guard opened with a key. They ushered him into a room, small by palace standards, and left him, closing and locking the door behind them. A table sat on one side, covered in papers that looked interesting. Corsin ignored them and instead surveyed the room. He could not see any spy holes, but those would be hidden in recesses and shadow. He was certain he was being watched, and snooping through papers that were none of his business wouldn’t win him any favors. Besides, if they were important, the guards wouldn’t have left him in the room alone. Most likely, they had been left as bait to see what he’d do.

A tall-backed chair sat at one end of the room with a door behind it. A possible exit, but he doubted it was an escape route. Whoever summoned him would come through that door, and there would doubtless be guards down the passage. Corsin had been in the palace before, sent to deliver death with poisons. Never a knife. No one must ever die of a mortal wound in the palace. The ramifications of a murder in the most protected part of the city were too many. Death had to appear natural, which meant its agent must also remain unseen. Consequently, he was familiar with parts of the sprawling citadel, but not this area. He doubted he could find his way out except by the way he’d come, and he wasn’t sure of even that.

It made him uncomfortable. He did not like being out of control, and he hated even more being without a weapon, but he could do nothing about it, so he clasped his hands behind his back and waited. There was only the one chair. Large and imposing in this room, it looked rather like a throne. He was not so foolish to think it a good idea to be sitting in it when whoever had summoned him made their appearance.

He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, after guards left him, the door behind the chair opened, and a tall, lean man entered. Corsin swore under his breath. It was the Prince.

A sudden fear gripped Corsin’s chest. Had his employer been discovered? Had he given Corsin up to save his own skin? Corsin knew how well torture could persuade men to betray one another. Sometimes, just the fear of pain was enough to turn loyalties. What loyalty would they have toward him? Corsin knew the answer, just as much loyalty as he had, which was none. A list of jobs he’d done, not a few ending in death, flashed through Corsin’s mind, and he wondered how much the Prince knew. What had he learned from Corsin’s employer? For a brief moment, he thought that maybe the Prince was his employer. But that couldn’t be. He’d killed people loyal to the Prince, and if that weren’t enough proof, his benefactor had offered him a fortune to assassinate the man himself. He’d refused, but if the Prince knew that he’d been offered the job, that might be enough to see him in the dungeons once more, if not kneeling before the axeman! Corsin resisted the temptation to touch the back of his neck.

The Prince moved to the high-backed chair and sat before gesturing Corsin forward. And Corsin realized he’d not made obeisance and went down on his right knee, right hand on his heart, his left extended with palm down.

The Prince spoke. You are Corsin, the assassin.

It was not a question. Corsin did not move, kept his head down, but his eyes darted, looking for a weapon. The Prince was not an easy man to kill. Rumor said he’d survived hundreds of attempts over the course of his centuries long rule, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be wounded, or overpowered. Corsin regretted he hadn’t tried to smuggle a weapon in.

We are alone, and none know I’m here, or who you are.

Corsin remained kneeling, feeling the man’s eyes on him. He dared not speak, and after a moment the Prince continued.

I regret to inform you that you are dead. Your body was found this morning in the ruins of a tavern, the Undying Night, located in the Southern quarter. It was, of course, mangled beyond recognition. Whether your demise caused you great suffering is, at this time, unknown. Again, he paused, letting the last word hang in the air before continuing.

You had a letter on you, and a writ of employment as an enforcer at the tavern. Sadly, the owner, too, is dead. If it is any consolation to you, he did not suffer. You and I alone know of this unfortunate event, so If word of this meeting leaves this room, I will know by whom it was told. And the story of your demise, and how excruciating it was, will become reality.

The Prince did not ask if he understood; the threat was implicit in his tone and Corsin nodded to show that he understood the Prince’s meaning.

Then rise. I prefer to look a man in the eye when we speak. I see the dust of the road is still on you.

Corsin got to his feet slowly and chose his words carefully. I could not return to my home, my Prince. And accommodations are scarce in Jarick, at the moment.

"Indeed. You know about the attack by now, if not the particulars. In point of fact, I’m not sure I know the particulars myself. An attack by Fruur is unprecedented.

Of course, the Prince continued. "The city fought bravely. Bolts shot from the ballista, large enough to pierce a ship’s hull, glanced off Fruur’s stony skin. We hurled great clay pots filled with burning pitch at him. They struck, and he flew through the sky ablaze. You should have seen it! Even in the midst of terror, to see a great flame in the sky was a wonder to behold.

But the heat did not scorch him, and burning pitch fell to the city below, setting it on fire. The Dachai were birthed from mountains of fire. Their skin is harder than granite. Their bones are iron, and the blood that flows through their veins is hot, molten rock. Our defenses were useless. Fortunately, I’d made provisions for such an assault years ago, though I never thought I’d need them.

Corsin nodded. I’d heard stories of lightning leaping from the ground to strike at him. They say you drove him from the skies.

It’s good they think so, but my defenses, while they may have slowed him, perhaps even prevented him from wreaking more havoc, are not why he left.

Then why?

I don’t know, but it’s doubtful we would have lasted much longer. As I said, the particulars elude me, but for some reason he stopped and flew away. There are reports of a man clutched in his talons, but who it was is not known. All that matters is that we are spared for now.

He shook his head and stood to pace. Corsin watched him. The man did not move like a fighter, but there was an arrogance and a surety in his movement that made Corsin believe he was dangerous. The Prince was speaking to himself, as if he’d forgotten Corsin was there.

I have more questions than answers, and more enemies than gold. But never, not in all my years, has Malasephus ever sent his pet dachai after me.

He turned to stare at Corsin. Why now?

Not knowing what to say, Corsin remained silent while the Prince stared at him. Gradually, Corsin realized he was waiting for an answer.

Uncertain what to say, Corsin kept his words simple and his tone meek. You are his prince. His chosen one. It’s said he coronated you by his own hand.

Stories. The Prince waved his hand, moving back to the chair to sit down. And I have learned that they who are chosen by the Virtues are seldom blessed by them. As for the crowning, that happened here, in Jarick. I have never been to the Sepinals, and I will never go.

He reached up to touch the golden circlet that rested on his brow.

I was crowned by a feral into whom Malasephus sent his spirit.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped beneath his chin. He peered at Corsin, as if willing him to see what he was remembering.

"You cannot imagine what it is like to be in his presence, the transformation that came over the feral when he entered it. No, I will never set foot where his power is not constrained. Even with my wards in place, the Beckoning nearly overwhelmed me. I think, had he wanted, he could have swept them away. There is a reason men worship him.

A Concupiscence was held to celebrate my ascension to the throne. Many feral were born that day, some of whom I still see from time to time. I did not take part, but sat behind my wards and watched the orgy unfold. Malasephus was not pleased that I did not join the revelry. It was the beginning of our rather tumultuous relationship. There have been assassination attempts, of course, but nothing serious. Mostly they are reminders and warnings that if he wanted to, Malasephus could remove me from the throne.

Until he sent Fruur? Corsin dared to ask.

Yes. That was no warning. Malasephus, it seems, is done with our games. Perhaps I can mollify him, build him a temple even more splendid than any he now has. I may even start attending the temple, not without my wards, mind you. Jarick has never fallen to an enemy. Not even I have taken it.

Corsin glanced around uneasily, wondering why the Prince was telling him these things. The Prince’s words bordered on treason, and if anyone other than the Prince said them, they’d be flayed alive. Was that why Malasephus had sent Fruur? Did the Prince see himself as Jarick’s conqueror?

My Lord? Corsin prompted.

I was set upon the throne by one of the Faces of God, fallen though he is. I wear the crown, but Jarick is not mine. The High Mark of the lowliest temple has more authority than I do, though I am called prince. Do you know, I do not remember the name I bore as a child, or the one I carried as a Sumisarian. Belæwa, they call me now. Betrayer. It is a name, at least. More than I have in Jarick. Here, I am simply the Prince. All my enemies have fallen over the years, save the Sumisarians, and their hatred of me knows no bounds. I’ve lost count of the assassins they’ve sent to kill me. I am their greatest shame, but at least they gave me a name.

He laughed, his fingers absently stroking the breastbone of his chest.

It bothered Corsin, this line of talk. The Prince spoke of the Sumisarians with respect, even fondness. When he mentioned the Fallen Virtue, his voice was cold and resentful. Ordinarily, to be brought into the confidence of a man as powerful as the Prince would have pleased Corsin, but he felt only fear. Corsin wasn’t afraid of any man, not even the Prince’s innuendo of a painful death frightened him. But Corsin was not fool enough to defy a god, and it seemed the Prince was, and by making Corsin a confident, he also made him a conspirator.

One problem at a time, he told himself. It was certain his benefactor had been discovered, and was either dead or imprisoned in the dungeons. Corsin would prefer dead. The Prince knew many of his secrets, but not all, he was sure. The source of his confidence was that he was still alive, and in this room. If the Prince knew everything, he’d be in the dungeons awaiting execution, but he’d been brought here, in secret, to be questioned by the Prince.

He was still in danger. The Prince might claim to be second in power to the High Mark of the temple, but he was far from powerless. Corsin knew the stories of the Sumisarians, who were said to paralyze a man with their runes or stop his heart. They could steal your will and stupefy thought or strike you blind. Some stories were likely exaggerated or lies. No one knew, but Corsin did not doubt that he was in the presence of one of the most dangerous beings in the world. And it had nothing to do with the guards on the other side of the door.

The Prince smiled, as if reading his thoughts. Don’t mind me, Corsin. I often wonder at such things, the curse of my former life as a Sumisarian. They have a habit of overthinking things, one I’ve not fully rid myself of.

I understand, my lord.

It raises an interesting question. What does a man cling to? Me, I cling to the ruminations and mutterings of learned men in a distant land. And you cling to your pride, I think. Why else would a man of your considerable skills keep such a notorious and remarkable name?

Corsin tried to hide his anxiousness and hoped he’d succeeded. The Prince, though, had spent centuries developing his skills, and Corsin did not doubt he could read a man’s body like a book. And there were chapters, secrets about his life that, if the Prince knew, would see Corsin’s head on the ground by his feet. Corsin chose his words carefully before speaking.

It was given to me by my father. I did not learn of its history until I was a man.

I doubt that. The pronunciation may not be the same, but its similarity to Corsinias would not have been missed. Were you not taunted as a child? Accused of siring yourself on your own mother, as Corsinias was said to have done?

It is only a name, my Prince. Nothing more.

My dear boy, a name is never just a name. Take, for instance, the Virtues. They did not protest when men started calling them that, because it was an honorific. It wasn’t until it became a name that they objected. It is an interesting history, not one fully taught in Jarick. Have you heard the story of how they became the Virtues?

Corsin shook his head, unsure what direction this was going.

"Noss was called the Virtue of Justice, for she often punished men. Tomalis became the Virtue of Wisdom, but all the Virtues were just, and wise, showed mercy. They were full beings, like men. Not manifestations of some divine quality. But they were called to perform certain functions, not unlike myself. I am called to rule over the concerns of Jarick, and so I am called prince, which is but a title and an honorific in other lands. But here, it is more than my title. All those who came before me forsook their names and became simply The Prince of Jarick, both in title and name.

"It was the same for the Virtues. Noss oversaw justice, so men began calling her the Virtue of Justice, and in time it became her name, or rather the word Noss came to mean justice. Tomalis taught men the paths of wisdom, so he became the Virtue of wisdom. As time passed, men stopped calling them by their names, or even the Faces of God. And then the word ‘virtue’ ceased being a title or description and rather became a new species of divinity. That was when men began to worship them.

A name is never just a name. It has the power to shape and define what it is applied to. The name of Corsinias is reviled, even in Jarick. I do not doubt he raped his own mother, though, not to sire himself. He forced his father to watch before killing them both. He is the reason patricide is illegal in Jarick.

Corsin’s blood turned cold, the sweat on his back grew chill. Did the Prince know? It was impossible, but the next words out of the Prince’s mouth condemned him.

Like Corsinias, you killed your father and framed your brother for the crime. It was not a question, and the Prince smiled.

Patricide! I believe even the faellen disapprove of such behavior, and then to have your brother take the fall, quite literally, from the gallows. Artfully done, especially for a boy not yet fifteen.

How long…

How long have I known? The Prince interrupted. Not long. A month, maybe a few days more. Your benefactor was eager to answer questions and serve you up to save himself. Did he really try to hire you to assassinate me?

Corsin did not answer. He imagined he could feel the axe man’s keen blade on his neck, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

Well, you were wise to pass. You would have failed, and of course you would have died, but another took the job. Which leads us here.

Is my life forfeit?

The Prince smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing Corsin had seen. You’re already dead, Corsin. I told you so. But today is the day you are born anew. Today, you enter my service. I have it on good authority your previous employer is out of business. You have talent and skills I can use, but I have a concern. You ended up in my dungeons once before. Why?

I was betrayed by one I thought I could trust.

No! You were betrayed by your pride. You thought that because you had gotten away with the murder of your father and brother that you were untouchable. That same pride makes you cling to a name that makes you unforgettable when you should be unremarkable. That is a problem I intend to remedy. A man as resourceful as you is valuable to me, but a man whose pride will not let him let go of his past is not. He is a threat. I can forgive much, even patricide, but pride is the unforgivable sin. It is the rot of every failed nation and every failed man. I have not sat on the throne for three centuries because I am powerful, but because I am afraid. I always fear the knife in the dark, the poisoned chalice. My pride never exceeds my ambition, and I always assume my enemies are smarter than me, because they often are.

Corsin bowed his head, and the Prince waited. He wanted something, that was certain, but what?

Corsin spoke. What will you do, my lord?

Nothing, Corsin. The pardon of the crime for which you were imprisoned remains, and I alone know of your other crime. It will not stand against you, no matter what happens today, but I must have men on whom I can rely, especially now.

Corsin lifted his head to meet the Prince’s eye. His face was blank, even passive. Corsin could not read his intent. It was well known that the Prince did not always do as he was told, but as he’d said, never had Malasephus been serious in his attempts to remove him from the throne. The coming of Fruur had changed everything, and still, Corsin did not know what the Prince expected of him. Surely, he would never trust the word of a thief and an assassin.

Desperation and fear clouded his thoughts as Corsin struggled to push them aside. The pardon still stood, but as the Prince had said, Corsin had already been reported dead. That report could be made fact, and he did not doubt that his next words would either spare or condemn him. Corsin considered everything the Prince had told him. Of his enemies, of the status of his position and the game that he played with Malasephus. What kind of madman defied a god?

And then he had it. The only kind of man who would defy a god is one who wanted to become one. The Prince wanted the throne beneath the Mountains of Binding. Palace servants might bow to him, show deference to his title, but while they might fear him, they worshipped Malasephus.

The Prince of Jarick, the infamous Sumisarian betrayer, was despised by those he admired, mocked by the one he served, and held in disdain by those he ruled. Even the servants he commanded did not truly serve him, but the priests of Jarick and Malasephus. All he wanted was respect and admiration. All he had was fear and disdain. For that, the Prince of Jarick dared defy his god. And if he could not be loved, the Prince of Jarick would be feared. And he would have loyalty.

He held Corsin’s life in his hands, hostage to Corsin’s fealty. His soul revolted at the thought of surrendering to any man, let alone one who was mad, but that was the only alternative here. Death, or fealty to the Prince. Corsin chose.

My Prince, if I am to leave your service this day, may I ask one favor before I’m sent to the axe man?

Within reason.

Give me this day, a new name, and I will wear it with honor, but not pride.

The prince smiled and stood, nodding his head slightly. Well done. Not all men would have passed this test. I will grant your request, and more, if you’ll have it. Your life for your loyalty. Show me that loyalty now. I know what your former master sent you to do. My origins are well known and no doubt he sent you to find some weakness to exploit. Tell me what you learned.

Chapter 2

image-placeholder

The Prince

Corsin considered his words deliberately, unnerved by the Prince’s accusation. Patricide was punishable by death, and though he was certain that nothing and no one could lead back to him, the Prince knew of his crime. Had he learned it from Corsin’s former employer? How had they known? And were they still alive, bargaining for their life with Corsin’s secrets? That he wasn’t in chains now was a good sign, but if the Prince found out all his secrets, Corsin’s head could still end up at his feet. And he’d obviously  overestimated how much of his past he’d kept hidden.

The prince was waiting for his answer. Corsin cleared his throat before speaking. There were certain… debts incurred to acquire this information. Promises made.

The prince raised an eyebrow. 

Circumstances have changed, of course, but my usefulness to you is preserved if those promises are kept, diminished, if they are not.

The prince studied him, considering the statement with careful attention before finally speaking. 

Very well. I will honor these promises within reason.

None are unreasonable, though some are unusual. I have a list. There are some whose actions might be considered, he paused a moment before continuing, if not in opposition to his majesty, then not entirely aligned with your interests. I think they might be brought around with the right incentives, but such men are more loyal to gold and silver than crowns and titles.

The prince nodded, his patience wearing thin. I have already said that I will honor all reasonable accommodations. Your report.

Corsin